by R. C. Martin
Stupid. So stupid.
Deep down, if I’m honest with myself, I was hoping Mateo’s reaction to the way I’m dressed tonight would give me a hint of what I might expect from Michael. I want him to be impressed. He’s only ever spent a considerable amount of time with me while I’m behind the bar in my black slacks and button-up. What I wore to his office was definitely more me—but tonight is different. Tonight, we’re stepping into uncharted territory, and I wanted to dress the part.
While my black, leather, bodycon dress is simple, it’s always one that’s made me feel sexy. It’s sleeveless and extents only until the middle of my thigh. It has a high neckline, so I don’t wear a necklace with it. Instead, I’ve styled my hair into a messy chignon, and I wear a pair of dangling gold earrings, which tie in the gold of my shoes. The heel and sole of my stilettoes are black, but the straps—beginning across my toes and stacked all the way up and over my ankles—are a metallic gold.
It takes me a little effort to find parking downtown, but I still have time to freak out after I’ve found a spot. I’m so nervous, I have to rub my hands over my cloth seat a couple of times to try and dry my sweaty palms. When I can stall not a moment longer without being late, I flip down my visor and take one last look at my face. I took my time with my makeup earlier, something I rarely do. I went with a dark, smoky eye tonight. The reminder of my handiwork instills me with the confidence to get out of the car and walk the block that spans between me and the restaurant.
When I arrive, pulling open the front door and stepping inside, my eyes scan around the room. It looks pretty crowded, but I remember Michael saying that he could get us a private table. I wonder where it is and if he’s already here.
“Hi. Welcome to Guard and Grace. How many will be in your party?”
The host who greets me is tall and slim, his generous amount of blonde hair slicked back stylishly. He smiles at me, and I manage to find the bravery to smile back as I inform him, “There will be two of us. There should be a reservation. The name is—” I stop short, not sure what name the reservation is under. It seems obvious that to use the name Cavanaugh wouldn’t be the smartest choice. Deciding to take a chance, I murmur, “It might be Foster.”
“Oh. Yes. Here you are,” he says, his attention focused on the tablet he cradles in his arm. He takes a step, as if he’s about to come out from behind his station, and then he retreats. He frowns, studies something for a moment, and then casts me a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry, it looks like you’ll be dining alone tonight.”
My stomach drops, my lips parting open in surprise as my brow furrows in confusion. “Pardon?”
“It says that the guest who made the reservation called earlier. He won’t be joining you, but has offered to cover the cost of your check if you’d like to stay.”
Oh, my god.
He changed his mind.
Pressing my clutch purse against my stomach, I try to process what’s happening.
Michael’s not coming.
“Shit,” I mutter, disappointment hitting me square in the chest.
No—it’s not disappointment.
It’s humiliation.
I can barely think when I turn and flee from the scene—the place where I had intended to spend an evening on a date—or whatever the fuck—with a man who is not mine. I knew. I knew when I got in the shower, when I slipped into this dress, when I picked out my shoes—I knew that I was doing it for a married man. I knew, and yet I did it anyway.
I lied to my boyfriend, I got into my car, and I drove here—not because I’m some heartless bitch, but because Michael makes me smile when I feel like crying. Because he walks me to the Light Rail when the sun is going down. Because when his hands are on me, all that I can think about is him. I came here because I thought he liked to make me smile. Because I thought he enjoyed my company. Because I thought he might have wanted me.
But he’s married.
He’s married, and I am a fucking idiot.
When I close myself into my car, I’m breathing so hard, it’s as if I ran all the way here. Maybe I did. I can’t remember now—I’m too busy combating my angry tears. I’m not even mad at him. How could I be? He made the right choice, and I didn’t.
I’m mad at myself.
I can’t believe that I came. Not just that I came, but that I came hoping. The guilt, the embarrassment, the anger, it makes me want to go home and shower. I want to wash away every bit of evidence that this night even existed. I want to scrub away every thought and fantasy I’ve had of him all week.
Except, I can’t go home. I just left. If I went back, I’d have to think of another lie to tell Mateo.
Fuck. I’m a liar.
Maybe I am heartless.
Thinking fast, I gnaw on my lip as I pull out my phone and send Irene a text. While I wait for her response, I try to remember if I saw her name on the schedule for tonight. When my phone pings with her reply five minutes later, I hold my breath and ask if she wants to grab a drink with me. The relief I feel when she agrees to meet me in an hour—telling me to name the place—it’s a fuck of a lot more than I deserve.
Michael
I WORK UNTIL eight o’clock—not because it’s critical that I stay well past the end of the day, but because I want to ensure that Blaine is at the Prohibition Lounge when I arrive. I’m not sure what time her shift starts, or if she’s even working today, but I’ve never dropped in early. So long as I have anything to do with it, I won’t miss my opportunity to see her this evening. If that means working late, so be it.
I was distracted all weekend, riddled with guilt. While I smiled at all the appropriate times, engaged in conversations that required my attention, and was altogether present where I should have been, my mind still found ample time to be at war over what I am in the midst of doing. Doing being the operative word. I have not changed my mind about what I want—about what I feel drawn to.
Who I feel drawn to.
On the one hand, I’m well aware that life has seen fit to offer me an out. My obligations Saturday night brought me to a fork in the road. I’ve been standing between the two roads for two days now, recognizing that each path comes with its own set of consequences. Yet, try as I might to make sense of how it is that I got here, or how it is that I’ve managed to find myself questioning which direction I should travel when the answer seems so obvious, all I see at the apex of my present station is Blaine.
I’m the one who asked her to dine with me. I practically insisted on it. I cannot even begin to imagine what she felt like on Saturday night when she showed up at the restaurant and I wasn’t there. I won’t insult her by taking away the significance behind her choice to meet me anymore than I’ll take away the significance of me asking her to be there. We’re both adults. We know the score, here. That said, it’s entirely possible that she won’t want to see me at all after the way I stood her up; but I owe her an explanation, if nothing else.
Though, if I’m to admit the truth, my intentions this evening are to offer more than an apology. Whatever it is that exists between us—whatever it is that tempts me in her direction—it’s greedy. I was robbed of an opportunity on Saturday, not rescued from it. No matter how much I think on it, I cannot squelch the desperation I feel to make it up to her.
At eight o’clock sharp, I stand from my desk. Draping my suit jacket over my arm, I slide my phone into my pocket and exit my office. Clay stands when he sees me, and neither of us says a word as we take our leave. It isn’t until we’re in the car and he’s started the engine that I inform him of my plans.
“I’ll be making a stop at the Prohibition Lounge before we go home.”
“Yes, sir,” he answers simply.
It takes us less than five minutes to arrive at our destination. Clay makes a move to get out of the vehicle, but I stop him. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” I insist, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
He looks back at me, nodding reluctantly, and then I head inside to the bar.
Anxiety makes my chest ache as I step inside of the establishment. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I see Blaine behind the bar. Relieved, I free the air from my lungs. Not even pausing to address the hostess, I march right up to my usual spot at the far end of the long stretch of counter. I don’t sit. I won’t be staying long.
I’m only waiting a second before Blaine notices me. The frown that tugs at her brow makes me think that she’s angry, but the blush that tints her cheeks speaks of something else. What, I’m not sure—but I intend to find out.
Blaine
WHEN I LOOK UP and see Michael standing at the end of the bar, all the air whooshes out of my lungs at once. I can feel my confusion as it makes itself evident on my face, along with the humiliation that colors my cheeks. I can’t believe that he’s actually here. In fact, I’m a little pissed that he is. Yesterday totally sucked. While I somehow managed to salvage my Saturday night, Irene obliviously lifting my spirits, my Sunday was spent trying to forget every moment I’d ever spent with the Governor. Except, in my attempt to forget, I only burned into my memory every single moment we’d ever shared. I went to bed thinking that maybe I wouldn’t be able to forget him, but at least I wouldn’t have to see him again.
Except, now I’m looking right at him. He’s here. In the freaking flesh.
I swallow hard, trying and failing to combat the relentless fluttering in my belly as I slowly close the distance between us. I don’t read into the way his eyes dance around my face. I don’t try and guess why he’s here. I’m too busy fighting with myself as I attempt to beat down the ridiculous sense of hope that seems to be rising up inside of me. It’s a task that takes up so much of my mental capacity, I don’t even bother speaking when I come to a stop in front of him.
“Do you have your phone on you?”
I stare at him blankly, caught off guard by his question. I have no idea what I thought he was going to say—no idea of what he should say after what he did to me Saturday night—but I certainly wasn’t expecting that.
“Blaine. Your phone, do you have it on you?”
Pulling the side of my cheek between my teeth, I manage to nod my response.
“May I see it?”
It isn’t until he asks for it that it becomes glaringly obvious that he doesn’t have my number. I feel stupid, not having thought about that until now. Of course, I knew that he didn’t have any way of getting a hold of me any better than I had a way of getting a hold of him. Even so, in all the excitement of Saturday night, it never occurred to me that his rejection might have been something else; only, he had no way of letting me know.
Now, against my better judgment, I stop the fight against my hope as I stare into his dark blue eyes—eyes that seem to be pleading with me. Now I do read into the way his gaze dances around my face. My heart beats faster, wondering why he’s here, asking for my phone.
“Blaine,” he speaks, his voice hardly above a whisper as he leans against the bar, extending his hand toward me, palm up. “There are things I wish to say, things I’d rather ensure stay between you and me. Your phone, please.”
My eyes widen at the implication behind his words, and I don’t hesitate a second longer. Pulling my phone from out of my back pocket, I unlock the screen and discreetly slip it into his hand.
“You’re going to take a break in a minute. If you have customers you need to see to, I suggest you do so now.”
Warmth spreads through my chest in a way that it shouldn’t in response to his bossy tone, but I don’t combat it. Neither do I deny my lips the smile that tugs at my mouth as I do as he says, checking on the patrons that are under my care at the moment. By the time I’ve seen to them—refilling a couple of drinks and putting in an order to the kitchen—Michael is no longer standing at the bar. I look over and see that he reached down and set my phone on my side of the counter. I hurry toward it, snatching it up just as Dodger returns from his dinner break. When my phone starts ringing in my hand, I jump and look down at it. Michael lights up the screen, and my stomach clenches in excitement.
“Hey, you good?” asks Dodger, nudging me with his elbow.
I shake my head clear, suddenly aware that I’ve stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the galley. As I look up at him, he furrows his brow in concern and asks, “Is everything okay? Do you need to take that call or something?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, everything is fine. But yes,” I stammer. “I do. I do need to take this call. I’m—I’m going to go on a quick break, okay?”
“Yeah, B. We got it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, rushing out from behind the bar. I swipe my finger across the screen, picking up before Michael is dropped into my voicemail. I’m halfway down the hall, headed toward the small employee lounge in the back as I answer, “Hello?”
Michael
I REACH UP and run my fingers through my hair, letting out a sigh at the sound of her voice. The phone rang so many times, I was afraid that she wasn’t going to pick up. As I stand on the sidewalk, just beside the town car, I stare down the street at the bar, imagining her tucked away in some corner as she graciously offers me her attention.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, wishing I could look her in the eyes as I say the words. “I wanted to be there Saturday, but something came up. I had an obligation to see to, one I couldn’t back out of easily.”
There’s a pause on the line before she tells me, “I thought you changed your mind.”
The vulnerability in her admission causes an ache to gnaw at my chest, and I regret ever making her feel such doubt. It isn’t lost on me that our situation is complicated, or that her agreeing to meet me in the first place was not a simple decision. This wasn’t some minor misunderstanding. What we’re entertaining between the two of us is as delicate as an intricately crafted time bomb.
“No, angel,” I murmur, hoping she takes me at my word. Right now, it’s all I have to give her. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“I want to make it up to you. I want to see you. I owe you a better apology than this.”
There’s another long pause on her end, and I bury my fingers in my hair once more, feeling out of sorts without her here in front of me.
“Are you sure?” she finally speaks. “Maybe everything that happened was the universe’s way of keeping us apart.”
Frowning down at my feet, I ask, “Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you turning me down, Blaine?”
Another pause.
“Blaine?”
As I wait for her response, I’m forced to process what I’m asking of her. I’m forced to come to terms with how selfish my request truly is. Leaving the ball in her court, leaving her to choose whether or not she wants to explore whatever it is that exists between us—the pull that I feel toward her in spite of our circumstances? It’s not fair; and yet, it is her choice, for I have already made mine.
“I don’t want to turn you down,” she replies, her voice soft and low. “But I don’t want to be stood up again, either.”
“Saturday. Let me make it up to you.”
“Where? What time?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to work some things out,” I tell her, my mind already racing as I try to think of something we could do, something special for her. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
“Okay.” She sighs, before she reminds me, “I’m at work. I should probably go.”
“Of course. I don’t mean to keep you. I’ll be in touch.”
Blaine
I BITE DOWN on my cheek and try desperately to hide my smile, knowing that being in touch is a figure of speech, and I’m totally immature to think otherwise.
Not to mention totally in the wrong for wanting to feel his touch as much as I do.
Nevertheless, I find myself saying, “Talk to you soon.”
“You will. Goodnight, Blaine.”
“Goodnight.”
&nb
sp; When I pull my device away from my ear, I stare down at it and hold my breath until I can’t hold it anymore. Blowing out a huge sigh, I let the reality of what just happened sink in a little bit. Everything that I was feeling yesterday was based on a misunderstanding. Now, not only do I have tentative plans this weekend, but I have Michael’s phone number.
I have the governor’s personal cellphone number.
Tapping on his contact information, I smirk to myself as I go to edit his name. I know that it’s silly, the way that I save numbers to my phone, but the important people in my life aren’t just saved under their names. Whatever is going on between Michael and me might be new, but it’s not nothing. Besides—it feels safer, giving him his own code name. Well, sort of.
After typing in The Governor, I hit save, slide my phone into my pocket, and get back to work. I then spend the rest of the night hoping that our next attempt at a date will result in the two of us being in the same place at the same time.
Michael
AS SOON AS I disconnect from the call, I return to the backseat of the town car. Clay catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and I signal him with a nod before he begins the short drive home. When I enter the mansion, I head straight to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, and my stomach growls at the sight of the spaghetti and meatballs my sister packed up for me on Saturday.
I’m sure she makes the best meatballs in at least five counties, a fact the whole family can agree on without argument. Though, I think Elliana likes to slurp the noodles more than anything else. Whatever her reasons, she requested the dish for her birthday dinner, and I’m content to indulge in the meal right now. Popping the lid on the Tupperware container, I slide it into the microwave, all the while replaying the conversation I had with Blaine not ten minutes ago.
